My heart cries like a beaten child, Ceaselessly, all night long; And I must take my own heart cries And thread them neatly into a song. My heart cries like a beaten child, And I must listen, stark and terse, Dry-eyed and critical, to see What I can turn into a verse. This was a sob at the hour of three, And this when the first cock crew -- I wove them into a dainty song, But no one thought it true! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LET ME NOT HATE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON NOBODY'S LOOKIN' BUT DE OWL AND DE MOON (A NEGRO SERENADE) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON VENUS IN A GARDEN by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON HERO-WORSHIP; SONNET by AMY LOWELL THE JOY OF THE HILLS by EDWIN MARKHAM |